Tiles from Valencia
by liriaen
Summary: A growing drabble collection, starring the usual suspects: Cesare, Michelotto, Taddeo, Lucrezia et altri. Gen, slash and het.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Flanders' Finest  
**Characters**: Cesare/Michelotto  
**Word Count**: 100

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**---**

**Flanders' Finest**

**---**

"Messer Vanderhaeghe," Cesare flips one of the bales, sending cloth down the table, "it's a tad too bloody. My father would think it a mockery if I presented this as a gift to him."

"But, your Lordship expressly specified-"

"Yes, mijnheer?"

"Nothing, your Lordship. May I humbly offer these bolts as the Guild's gift to you."

Cesare nods, absent-mindedly, and once the merchant has scurried away, he grabs Michelotto and bends him over the cloth, nipping and teasing and whispering in Catalán: "And would you wear red for me then, Miguel?"

Michelotto chuckles and bites him. "Thought I already did."

**---**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Falling  
**Characters**: Cesare/Taddeo/Michelotto  
**Word Count**: 100  
**A/N:** Written for drabble-a-trois (prompt: help), and oh my, so canon. :)

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**---**

**Falling**

**---**

"I said," Taddeo took a breath that strained his farsetto, "keep away from him." He'd drawn blank, barring the door.

"Don't be ridiculous." Michelotto leaned in, shoving the blade aside. "Come now, Volpe, let me in-"

"Or?"

"Or you're an even bigger fool than I thought. Do you believe tying him up helps? What sort of a brute are you?"

Ducking and weaving, Michelotto sprinted through antechambres, knife out, but then there was Cesare, writhing in pain, frothing and biting a pillow, and it...

It tore Michelotto in two.

Drawing him into his arms, Michelotto crooned gently, closing Cesare's eyes.

**---**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Devil Spawn  
**Characters**: Juan/Cesare, Jaime  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Warning**: hints at non-con

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**---**

**Devil Spawn**

**---**

"Juan. Don't," Jaime says. He squats on one of the wide window sills, licking his lips. Nevermind that he just asked Juan to desist; in fact he's craning his neck, trying to get a better look.

Juan is fumbling with his codpiece while two of his goons are holding Cesare down, squashing him into the flagstones and cutting off his air supply.

It's ugly and messy. There's blood and shit and the crunch of a broken rib, but just as Juan spasms, his triumphant crow devolves into a squeal.

Jaime smirks. Leave it to Cesare to have teeth down there.

**---**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Chiaroscuro  
**Characters**: Cesare/Taddeo/Michelotto  
**Word Count**: 100  
**A/N:** Written for drabble-a-trois (prompt: trick), and in answer to a lovely Cantarella-drabble Michalyn wrote for me.

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**---**

**Chiaroscuro**

**---**

The paws of a cat, a scattering of rats, perhaps - it couldn't be more than that. Cesare uncurled and carefully slipped from Taddeo's arms. He listened for another second, then padded out onto the loggia.

Judging by the light, it had to be the hour before dawn.

"Are you there," he whispered, listening past the thud of his own naked feet on tile.

"Come, Chiaro," he said softly. "Come finish it."

Waiting, lips parted, he willed the darkness to move. He prayed for Chiaro's silent bounds, for death to be swift, but it was just a trick of the mind.

**---**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: Torre di Nona  
**Characters**: Michelotto, Machiavelli  
**Word Count**: 100  
**A/N:** Torre di Nona was the Roman prison in which Michelotto was held from early 1504 until 1506.

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**---**

**Torre di Nona**

**---**

"You have seen him!" Michelotto's eyes light up with hope. "How fares he?"

Machiavelli looks around for a place to sit, lifting the hem of his mantle, then decides to stand. The filth is unspeakable. "Still ill with the tertian fever." What else should he tell him? That Cesare is out of his mind, losing all touch and common sense? "Miguel, you need to imply him. That is your only chance," he explains softly, patiently. "He can no longer help you."

Michelotto turns his face to the wall, praying for the torturer's irons to dull the pain in his chest.

**---**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: Divini occhi sereni  
**Characters**: Cesare  
**Word Count**: 100  
**A/N:** The title comes from a madrigal. Inspired by a Higuri-drawing of Cesare with a lute.

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**---**

**Divini occhi sereni**

**---**

Barely able to see the courses and frets for tears, he bends over the lute, cradling it close. His hands are shaking. He knew, he knew this was a bad idea.

The melody comes unbidden, faltering; the arrangement skewed, his tuning flawed. Cesare stops and tunes her again, the raw naked misery of memory choking him. He's tempted to smash the damned thing to splinters but refrains, knowing it would make him unhappier still. An empty gesture of sound and fury, and he'd crawl to pick up the pieces.

The melody comes unbidden, faltering, accompanied by his own broken hum.

**---**


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: Fragola (Strawberries)  
**Characters**: Cesare/Michelotto (und Ensemble)  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Language**: German, written for Catsintheattic.

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**---**

**Fragola**

**---**

Chiaro spürt, wie ihm die Hitze ins Gesicht steigt, also schaut er die Tafel hinab: zu Alexander, Lucrezia auf dem Schoß; zu Ascanio, der Sanchia zuzwinkert; zu Juan und Jaime...

Sodom und Gomorrha.

Cesare starrt ihn immer noch an. Er hat die Schüssel Walderdbeeren zu sich gezogen und lutscht an jeder kleinen, roten Frucht, als sei sie eine Brustwarze, schleckt mit Katzenzunge über die rauhe Oberfläche.

"Hör' auf!" mimt Chiaro, aber Cesare zuzelt sich so lange Beeren zwischen geschwollene Lippen, bis er mit einem Seufzer die Augen zurückrollt und Chiaro die Beine übereinanderschlägt.

Was gäbe er jetzt für Cesares Kardinalsroben.

**---**


	8. Chapter 8

**Title**: Twist  
**Characters**: Lucrezia/Cesare  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Warning**: allusions to incest

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**---**

**Twist**

**---**

It's one of the memories she will always return to, long after he's dead.

The soft patter of his naked feet, bandages around knees and wrist, bloodied when he'd twisted to catch her. How he stole into her room that night, limping and wincing after Aunt Adriana's caning.

It was the last time he slept in her bed, holding her close, tucking her head under his chin.

Lucrezia will take this memory and shape it into something else. She'll still feel him there, and there, sliding down, prying her open, his fingers his tongue his breath long after he's gone.

**---**


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: Albicocci

**Pairing**: Cesare / Michelotto

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: The scene of a summer eve, with golden fuzz and red fingers.

**A/N**: Written for Michalyn, with the prompt of "blood and apricots".

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**--**

**Albicocci**

**--**

Shouldering the door closed, he breathes in, out, in, a drop of sweat running down his temple. It's quiet up here on the third floor, removed from the narrow streets. The windows are open to the breeze; swallows are darting from underneath the carved and painted eaves. The air up here is pure enough for him to smell the orchards, the hills nearby, the vineyards just beyond the Belvedere.

Yet catching his breath takes longer this time, and when Michelotto lifts his arm to wipe at his face, his muscles are screaming.

Tired. He's tired, that's all.

It's when he's lugging himself to the washstand that he sees them: a maiolica bowl full of apricots. They weren't there before; weren't there when he left. Curious now, he bends forward to examine them. They're perfect, each and every one of them, just shy of ripe and covered in pale golden fuzz. With a sigh, Michelotto closes his eyes and breathes in. They smell so good.

He draws his sword the moment he hears the voice, though.

"Oh my, you _are_ tired," Cesare softly says as he moves from the bed and steps around the table. "You really didn't see me, eh? Tsk."

Eyes half-open, Michelotto allows Cesare to pry his hand off the hilt. "You're right, I didn't see you. Doesn't mean you would have stood a chance." He watches Cesare lift his fingers to kiss them when it occurs to him that there's blood, still. "Wait," Michelotto mumbles. "I haven't had a chance to-" But Cesare just sucks the fingers into his mouth, and Michelotto blushes, looking at apricots instead.

**--**


	10. Chapter 10

**Title**: Glow

**Pairing**: Michelotto

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Torre di Nona gives Michelotto time to think.

**A/N**: Drabble written for Katilara, with the prompt of "glow".

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**--**

**Albicocci**

**--**

Where are you now? Are you striking a deal, striking a pose? Are you dining well? Will you be having a doe-eyed boy for dessert?

Mi 'spiace.

Guess I'm in too much pain to make sense. But I would like to see your face again, alight with dreams. Fierce and bellicose like Mars himself. Debauched like the lewdest courtesan. Relaxed and quiet in repose.

Della Rovere's men call me a rat that grew fat on your crumbs. They're whispering in my ear, promising to crush me.

Let them.

They'll never know what it was like, to bask in your glow.

**--**


	11. Chapter 11

**Title**: Dec. 29

**Characters**: Cesare/Michelotto

**Word Count**: 100

**Rating**: PG-13

**A/N: **Written for Michalyn

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"For me?" Incredulous, Miguel flicks hair from his face and bends over the thing: rosewood, with the palest of ivory frets. A body so thin he's afraid of squashing it, should his touch turn _con brio_-

"For you." Cesare smiles, a little too pleased with himself. "The 29th is your name-day, no? The Archangel Michael." His chin pokes into Miguel's shoulder, his right curling over Miguel's trembling hand.

_Mi-Kha'El_, who is like God. Leaning back, Miguel closes his eyes and allows Cesare to strum the lute with him, for him, using his fingers like a pick,

ad maiorem Dei gloriam.

-


	12. Chapter 12

**Who**: Cesare, mostly

**Why**: Written for lj's la_cantarella

**What**: 100 words, to the prompt of 'secret'

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***

"Voscienza," the man black-clad man croons. "Baci le mani. I bring news from-"

Cesare doesn't let him finish. "How fares he," he says, voice a tired ripple.

"Better, lord. Better. It seems Messer Machiavelli has taken him under his wing." The messenger isn't sure what to say. "He works for a wine merchant now. Modest lodgings. Predictable in his habits. Most pious and fastidious, or so his landlady says."

"Is that so," Cesare remarks distractedly. "And tell me. Is he hale?"

Twisting his cap, the man fidgets and remembers Taddeo's knife under his chin. "Lord, about that-" _Not a word._

_***  
_


	13. Chapter 13

**Who**: Chiaro/Cesare

**Why**: Written for lj's la_cantarella

**What**: 100 words, to the prompt of 'rain'

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***

At first, he's just that: a boy left out in the rain. Chiaro sees him shiver as he fights for dignity, standing in a cortile freezing.

If things were different, if Cesare weren't his charge and his mission, he'd pull the wet little cat in and drape him in his mantle. "There, there," he'd say.

In the end, he is just that again: a boy out in the rain, fingers clutching leaves and earth, and Chiaro will kneel beside him, hold him, drape him, keep him warm and safe in the night.

"There, there," he'll whisper, and kiss Cesare's eyes.

***


	14. Chapter 14

**Who**: Cesare, Chiaro, Tadeo

**Why**: Looking far into their future...

**What**: 300 words, taking place in the Autumn of 1503.

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***

The kiss is soft, so soft, and  
Cesare draws breath like a drowning man  
who frantically scrabbles for purchase;  
stay, he begs raggedly - it's his last attempt  
at chasing the unchaseable

"Taddeo!" Wheeling his horse around, Miguel signals to Volpe who is bringing up the rear. "Taddeo," he repeats, "we have to stop." Rain is pearling down his forehead. He wipes his face with a wet sleeve. "There is no way he'll make it to Nepi."

Taddeo curses and spits. "God's blood, man. It's what, six more miles? We stop here, we're sitting ducks." His handsome features are made ugly by something like... despair? Revulsion? Miguel can't decide. Disappointment, perhaps.

He's disappointed that Cesare should prove mortal, after all. Is that it? "Go look," Miguel says simply, leaning back, gloved hands on the pommel. Here, his body seems to say, this is it. We shall go no further.

Folding back the curtain of the litter, Taddeo bites his lip and holds his breath. "Your Excellency," he says, voice rich and smooth and not cracking a bit.

Hanging back, Miguel watches. Oh, he keeps an eye on the hills, keeps the baggage train rolling, sizes up the terrain. Taddeo is right; if they stop here, they'll be defenseless. No letter of passage, no seal nor Papal writ would save their arses. Miguel watches Taddeo, not so inscrutable now.

Turning, Taddeo squints up at the rain, then back at Miguel. "Fine. Thirty minutes. Then we continue." Miguel can't recall the other man's gaze ever having been so dull. "And get someone to clean him up before we enter town."

Underneath the rash Cesare is as white as a sheet  
hair and beard tangled,  
eyes sunken deeper than the dead Christ's  
lips still parted in a kiss he lost between the sheets

***


	15. Chapter 15

**Who**: Cesare/Lucrezia

**Why**: Written for the kink meme at LJ's la_cantarella

**What**: 464 words, to the prompt of "Cesare/Lucrezia - incest."

**Whom**: Rated R, please don't read if the topic of incest disturbs / bothers you.

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***

His head rests between her breasts, his poor, hot, feverish head, and he's drooling a little. Lucrezia tries to shift, tries to lift him aside to be able to draw breath again, but Cesare lies there like a lump, arms wrapped around her middle.

The stubborn thing.

The inside of her thighs is still wet. Everything clings to her. Especially her brother.

Her fingers thread through damp hair. "Cesare, get up," she whispers. "Come. You have to wake up." She remembers wanting this, when she was younger. She had looked to him as her knight in shining armour, and she had dreamed about this: how he would lift her in his arms and carry her, the swirling arc of her gown, laughter, teasing, gentle touches. Courtly love.

She's a woman now: woman enough to have mixed feelings about this particular dance which, most of the time, is not unlike the sad thrashing of corpses. A danse macabre born from fear of death.

"It's almost dawn," she says gently. "You need to go, dear."

When he blearily opens his eyes, she's relieved to see that he is himself again. He wasn't, last night. Having come all the way fom Forlì, two full days' hard ride, he'd killed one horse, crippled another. He'd stormed her chambers in Santa Maria in Portico, demanding to know Alfonso's whereabouts, and Lucrezia thanked the Virgin that her husband wasn't home.

Something to do with Chiaro; Lucrezia gathered that much. If it could upset Cesare like this... it had to be Chiaro. Cesare held her by the throat and shoved her up against the wall. "Your piece of filth husband. Where is he."

The snarling thing, was that her brother? She looked upon him with new-found pity and kindness, so that when he carried her to her bed, she didn't quail, but it was like nothing she had ever dreamed about. It was awkward and he came early, holding onto her like a drowning man clutches a plank.

The wan first light makes him look sickly now. Pale and stubbly, with a fever flush. "Lucrezia," he mumbles, tongue thick with sleep. But he does not rise. Instead he lifts his lips to her breasts, the left, the right, then starts sucking the left. A month or two earlier there might have been milk still. _You have to leave_, she wants to say, but then his hand slips between her legs.

The second time does not undo the first, no, but it is better. More like what she once imagined: careful, with hitched breath, he'd wait for her, lift her up and gently set her down amid purrs and the softest of sighs. His twisted sort of peace offering.

_My lamb, my brother._ Stroking the sweaty head between her breasts, Lucrezia understands.

***


	16. Chapter 16

**Who**: Taddeo/Cesare

**Why**: Written for the kink meme at LJ's la_cantarella

**What**: 350 words, to the prompt of "Cesare/Taddeo - roleplay"

**Whom**: Rated R, please don't read if D/s themes disturb or bother you.

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***

"Lord, I-"

"Silence." Taddeo glares, then slaps Cesare for good measure. His hand leaves an imprint, a fiery mark of servitude. It's wrong, so wrong, to have Cesare on his knees, and it's so right.

The years are melting away. All the things left unsaid, all the pleas that went unanswered because they were never made. Like hot wax, Cesare's pride is melting, no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it. Oh, there is something like dignity in slavery; Taddeo knows all about it - it's what has kept him alive these many years. He just doesn't intend to grant Cesare any. And he would enjoy this more if he didn't suspect Cesare's recent... thing... for submission was linked to Michelotto - that Cesare wishes to do penance - but he is not going to quibble.

"You know what to do," he growls. "Get to."

Cesare doesn't meet his eyes while he undoes Taddeo's strings. His back is a cramped, shivering ridge of bone, blue-white now, cold from kneeling naked too long. He can barely keep himself upright, but he tries.

He does try to please, Taddeo knows, but he's so close to breaking. And Taddeo doesn't want their roles to revert just yet. It's tricky business, this having to gauge Cesare's moods, tiptoeing around the scales to add a little more weight here, and another bit there, just enough to keep Cesare demure and pliant. Add too much, hit him too brutally, fuck him too hard on cold flagstone, and Cesare will get up and leave.

Cesare has sucked him down without gagging - which earns Cesare a softer touch, fingers curled in his nape. But then his knees threaten to buckle. Quickly, Taddeo discovers it's a helpless ploy, Cesare's attempt at finding some friction for himself. It almost makes him laugh, this feigned weakness to better press against Taddeo's riding boot.

"None of that." Taddeo's voice is soft, but his grip grows firm. Cesare thrashes now, fighting for air. When Taddeo lets go, finally, Cesare is close to retching, crumpling up and hiding his face.

Once the door is flung shut, it leaves Cesare curled in darkness.

Taddeo leans against the bolts, heart racing. He laces up and locks the rooms, once, twice, door after door. He makes sure to note the position of the sun, the elaborate clock on his desk. In four hours exactly, he will bring Cesare perfumed hot water and fresh clothes, laying out his weapons and insignia, and he will bow.

"Excellency," he'll say, then stand aside to let Cesare pass.

***


	17. Chapter 17

**Who**: Cesare/Chiaro

**Why**: Written for the kink meme at LJ's la_cantarella

**What**: 255 words, to the prompt of "Cesare/Michelotto - tenderness."

**

* * *

  
**

***

What if he blinks and it's gone? Cesare holds his breath, looking at the downy head that rests against his shoulder. No, he promises himself, he will take this in and cherish it, and this sweet moment will not be gone, not ever, not from his heart nor from his mind. That Michelotto would allow him this close again.

He could have forced him, of course. It would have been within his rights. It even... crossed his mind. But then Cesare's anger had turned to water.

He hadn't seen him in so long.

Ushered into Cesare's rooms, Michelotto looked drawn, hardship etched into his face. It made him all the more beautiful, Cesare thought, lived-in. A man. "Don Michele," he said courteously. "We are glad you should have chosen to grace our household again."

How it took him by surprise when Michelotto stepped around his desk and lifted two fingers to Cesare's lips to circle them! He was tempted to snatch the hand and hold onto it - hold onto it for dear life - but that would have broken the spell.

With a hazy softness, the spell guided them to the carpeted floor, twined their fingers and brought their lips together. It peeled away elaborate clothing, kept them warm and then cooled them off.

Now Michelotto nudges his face into the crook of Cesare's neck. His lids are tinged blue, but they are closed in peace. And no matter where they go from here, Cesare vows, he will never, ever let this go.

***


	18. Chapter 18

**Title**: Escape (written for Kennahijja)  
**Characters**: Cesare/Alfonso  
**Word Count**: 100

**

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---**

**Escape**

**---**

The sybils bend their benign faces. They incline their ears and listen to his prayer, to the feverish litany of love for his sister: that they keep and preserve her, guide and protect her after he's gone, for she is a pearl of great price-

"Hush," Cesare whispers and wipes Alfonso's sweaty face. "Hush now, don't strain yourself so."

The doors were locked and under guard, Alfonso knows this. Panting, he sits up. He is so weak he has to lean against Cesare's side, fingers curling around Cesare's nape. "I'm no longer afraid, Cesare," he mouths thickly. "I pity you."


End file.
